A Distinct Presence Of Blame
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Memories resurface as Neal lays eyes on the scar on Mozzie's chest. PG-13, Gen. Spoilers for 2x16 Under the Radar.


**Title:** A Distinct Presence Of Blame  
**Author:** TeeJay  
**Summary:** Memories resurface as Neal lays eyes on the scar on Mozzie's chest.  
**Written for: **anonymous for the LiveJournal collarcorner Prompt Fest #4  
**Prompt/Request:** Mozzie's Scars  
**Would Like:** Neal sees the scar on Mozzie's chest left behind from Julian Larssen's bullet. Our charming con man feels like it is his fault. H/C ensues. How Neal ends up seeing the scar is up to the author!  
**Don't Want:** OOC-ness (I don't think Moz is the crying type)  
**Characters:** Mozzie, Neal  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Genre:** Gen  
**Warning:** Pretty heavy spoilers for 2x16 "Under the Radar" (and previous episodes)  
**Author's Note:** I actually had no true intention of writing this when I first saw the prompt being posted. And then I sat there, re-reading some of the prompts, feeling completely uninspired about the other WIPs I still have on my hard drive, and this just popped into my head.  
Also, the "curb mishap" alludes to one of my stories called Helping Hands. However, it's not necessary that you know that story prior to reading this.  
Thank you to the ever wonderful rabidchild67 for the beta!  
**Disclaimer:** Bla bla Jeff Eastin, bla bla USA Network. Bla bla not mine, not making any money from this. Bla bla characters welcome.

* * *

"Geez, this is so embarrassing."

"Moz, don't worry about it," Neal said. "Remember when you helped me after my mishap with the curb?"

"Yeah, a memory I'd rather not explore."

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual. However, take this as a way of repaying my debt."

"What debt? There was never any debt."

"I'd like to think there was. Now lean forward."

Mozzie did as he was told, and the cheap chipboard bed creaked as he did so. Neal helped his friend lift his very 70's style brown t-shirt over his head. The gauze pad that was fastened to Mozzie's back had an ugly, brownish-red stain in the middle.

"Now, this might hurt a little," Neal said as he started to pry the adhesive tape loose.

"Have you known me to be a wimp?" Mozzie asked, his voice determined.

"Actually, now that you mention it..."

And it was true. He didn't even flinch when Neal removed the bandage that was covering a rather nasty looking gash that had needed stitches. He turned to reach for the antiseptic ointment on the makeshift nightstand and started carefully dabbing it onto the wound.

Mozzie winced ever so slightly, and Neal figured it must hurt just as much as he imagined. After a more pronounced but silent flinch from Moz, Neal muttered, "Sorry."

"It's okay. Keep going."

"Almost done."

Two minutes later, Neal was fastening a clean gauze pad to Mozzie's back to cover the wound. It was only after he put away the first aid supplies he'd used that he realized his muscles were just as tense as if he'd been the one to live through the pain. He made an effort to relax, letting out a long breath.

"Okay, I think we're good for now."

Mozzie gave him a small smile, straightening his back. As he did so, Neal's gaze fell across Mozzie's exposed chest and the scar just beside the left nipple.

The scar. The shooting. The bullet they had removed from his friend's chest that had barely missed his heart. It all came back with a sudden intensity that Neal hadn't expected or been prepared for.

He was suddenly back in the hospital waiting room, those ugly hours of waiting and uncertainty and strained silence and guilt.

Neal realized he had never really talked about it with Moz. But then again, it hadn't felt like they needed to. The closest thing to a tête-à-tête they'd come to was in the hospital, when Mozzie had admitted that he was a Judas, that he'd betrayed Neal by telling Peter about Neal's plan to shoot Fowler. And Neal had thanked him then, because it might have possibly saved his life. At the very least saved him from a lifetime in prison.

And how had Neal thanked him? By putting him in the line of fire. Right there in the crosshairs of Adler's goon-with-a-gun—a ruthless killer who wanted only one thing: the code to the music box's secret.

The damn music box. Looking back at it now, it all seemed very anticlimactic. The fractal antenna, the U-boat, the moment of testy truth when he and Peter cut the wires to the bomb. All for what? A glimpse at an invaluable treasure that he knew he'd never be able to keep for himself?

God, his friend had almost died for it. _Friends_, plural. Peter and Alex had been put in the line of fire too. Peter had even shot a man. Had it all been worth it?

Mozzie's voice ripped him from his reverie.

"Hello-o?" He waved a hand in front of Neal's face. "Earth to Neal, anyone there?"

"Sorry, Moz," he replied, his voice subdued, his gaze still transfixed on Mozzie's chest.

Moz made an effort to put his t-shirt back on, then folded his hands in his lap. His voice was sympathetic with a rare absence of sarcasm. "We can pretend I didn't notice what you were staring at, or we can talk about it. Choice is yours."

"Moz..." Neal let out a sigh, weighing his options.

"If I was to hazard an educated guess as to what was going through your mind right now, I'd say there was a distinct presence of blame. Maybe regret. Definitely guilt."

"Yeah, there's some of all of that."

"Neal..." Mozzie started. "As much of an ordeal as it was to recuperate from a bullet wound to the chest, I never—"

"Please, Moz," Neal interrupted him—pleading, almost.

"No, I think you need to hear it. I knew what I was getting myself into. Well, maybe I didn't know right then, and maybe the challenge of the music box blinded me a little, but I'm a con man too, remember? There's no con without risk."

"Only some risks are greater than others."

"Give me some credit here, I'm not stupid. I realized this was big when the whole Fowler thing went down. And from the point of cracking the code to reveal the fractal, I knew it was Adler. I knew your history with him. I mean, geez, I even introduced you to him. If anyone's to blame here, it should be me."

"No, Moz. You don't get to turn this back around on you."

"Why do we need to turn this at all? On anyone? Can we not agree that it's no one's fault? Or everyone's—a little?"

"You know it's not as easy as that," Neal said in a low voice.

"No, it never is."

"I still wish... I still wish I could have just—" Neal choked on the words, but composed his voice quickly. "I could have let this go before people got hurt."

Moz gave him one of his incredulous looks. "Are you serious? There was no way you could have let this go. I know you too well. Kate, Fowler, a longing for revenge that was blinding your every move? You couldn't have let this go if you wanted to."

"Yeah," Neal let out in a bitter whisper. "And that makes it even worse."

"Be that as it may, I get it. And I think so did The Suit."

"Peter? What do you mean?" Neal's head came up.

"Why do you think he never punished you for the Fowler incident? I mean beyond the half hour of handcuffs on the way to the Bureau."

It was true, and Neal had never even thought about it. Things had been moving so quickly, it had just been _bam-bam-bam_ after that day—one thing leading to another, and soon they were back to solving White Collar crimes again. Everyone had purposefully ignored the Fowler incident, like it had become an unspoken rule that it was not to be mentioned. Not even Hughes had given him the dressing down talk.

Suddenly, Neal felt incredibly grateful.

Mozzie studied him quizzically. "So, can we agree to call this water under the bridge?"

Neal gave him a small, rueful smile. "This water may be a little murky, but, yeah, I guess I could agree to that."

"Good," Mozzie said with a smile. "Now, how about you get us two wine glasses and some of that Zinfandel on the counter over there."

Neal got up and did as he was asked. As he lifted the dark bottle, something dawned on him.

He turned back to face his friend, his eyebrow raised questioningly. "This wouldn't happen to be a bottle that previously occupied a wine rack in the rooftop apartment of a certain Manhattan mansion owned by one June Delgado? A bottle I clearly recall having inquired about and was informed that it had regretfully fallen victim to three hours of waiting time in said apartment."

Mozzie grinned sheepishly. "Well..."

"Seriously, Moz, I can't believe you actually stole my wine. And lied to me about it."

"Guilty as charged. And I feel bad about it. But I swear, this was the only one. And only because I liked the Zinfandel so much."

Neal cocked his head. "Okay, let's pretend I believe you. You can make it up to me by actually restocking my supply. You know, like you've so often promised and never done."

Moz lifted his hands defensively. "Guilty again. And I promise. For real."

"Thank you," Neal smiled. "Now, tell me where the corkscrew is before I die of thirst."

"Gladly. First drawer to your right."

"Moz, there _is_ only one drawer."

"Exactly."

* * *

THE END.


End file.
